Despite what you see on television, the weather is usually very bad.
If you like four seasons, please know we have twelve:
Winter, Fool’s Summer, Winter Redux, Spring, A Really Hot Week
in April, May Gray, June Gloom, Summer, Wildfire,
Frigid Morning-Blazing Afternoon, and, with enough prayer, Rain.
You’ve seen the traffic ooze down the 405. People live there.
They celebrate birthdays in their cars. In order to get a Los Angeles
driver’s license, you must demonstrate your proficiency in applying
mascara while driving 78 miles per hour on a freeway. You will
always eat while driving, and you will never drink before entering
a car. All other drivers become your nemeses. Imagine living like that.
If you love parking you’ll hate Los Angeles. If you love mass transit
you’ll hate Los Angeles. If you love paying most of your income in rent,
you’ll love Los Angeles. You’ll track down the apartment listing
that says, “View of the Hollywood Sign” and then discover yes,
you can see it, from the living room window on a rarely clear day
when you stand at a 45 degree angle to the wall and mash your face
against the glass like a suckerfish and yes, there it is. WOO
visible against a hill that, like a petulant child, threatens to burn.
You’ll have to learn to love hiking, or at least lie about liking hiking.
You’ll have to learn that walking anywhere other than on a hiking trail
is more of a thrill than a way of life. Carry those groceries home.
What a star you are. Your carbon footprint smaller than Lucille Ball’s
at the Chinese Theater. If you love movies, Los Angeles will rattle it
out of you like a gumball. If you love books, no one here will
understand you. If you love television, at least you’ll never have to
leave your apartment by car or by foot. People in Los Angeles
act happy because we each get a small monthly check from Hollywood
to keep up the charade. They watch us to make sure we comply.
They know our names, our iPhone passcodes. I shouldn’t even be
telling you this. They’re listening right now. Someone at Lifetime
just picked up the phone to pitch a two-hour movie about my life.
They want to call it Traitor to Angels: The Charles Jensen Story.
Justin Theroux is considering the role. Things happen so fast here.
We act laid back, but we’re always rushing, unless we’re on the 405.
If you get this message, take heed. They’re also telling me to promote
The Charles Jensen Story here, for which I receive a modest amount
of praise in lieu of cash. Exposure is priceless, you know. They say
I should be happy just to be nominated. I didn’t even know
I’d been considered. I didn’t even know I was playing myself.